Oliver Shaw, Helping A Bro Out
by crackers4jenn
Summary: Oliver invites Sam and Andy to a backyard barbecue. It might be a date.


"So, the Missus has me on head count duty. You in?"

"For?"

"My world famous barbecue, obviously. What else?"

"Ahh."

"So, here's the thing."

"I knew it."

"No, because if you'd just let me finish**—**"

"Oliver, buddy, I love ya, but I'm out. I can't be involved in another one of your burnt chicken-offs."

"Ha. Yeah. Funny. Nothing about those chicken legs were burnt, okay**—**"

"Could've called the hose monkeys, that's how far gone they were. Charred baby chickens."

"You done? Are you done? Because, _Sam_, I'm trying to tell you that, well. You know Zoe."

"Yeah... how'd you land her again? Guy like you, woman like that?"

"You know what? Forget it."

"Come on! Go on."

"Can I?"

"Yes. Go."

"So, Zoe. God love her. She's a meddler, you know, she likes to get right in there and meddle with her own two hands. And. Look, don't _look_ at me that way you do when something bothers you but you're pretending it doesn't**—**"

"I don't have that look."

"Brother, you _invented_ that look. Not the point. I'm saying, you know how Zoe is. Sooo. Yeah, so she had me invite McNally and I think she's gonna try and set you two up, so. Hey, bring the beer**—**"

"I'm sorry. What?"

"Look! I told her it was probably a bad idea and **—** see, I knew it, you're making that face. You're totally making that face."

"I'm not, because you know why? McNally's never gonna show up to your backyard barbecue, so give Zoe a kiss on the cheek for me, tell her maybe next time..."

"Right, right. Except, hey. Except?"

"What?"

"She already did. Already asked, Andy already RSVP'd. We're good to go."

"McNally said yes?"

"Yep."

"To a barbecue. At your place."

"Bringing dip, too."

"Dip."

"French onion, or **—** yeah, who knows. A dip. You okay, brother?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because, I don't know. It's you. And it's **—** _dip_. And I know how you feel about... dip, especially when you get confronted with those feelings."

"I don't have FEELINGS about _dip_."

"Good. So, tonight should be fun."

"Tonight?"

"Bring the beer. Sam? Bring the beer. Seriously. Don't forget it."

"Alright, alright."

"Beer. 6 o'clock. See ya." 

* * *

><p>"So, uh. Funny thing, McNally. Ollie's talking hockey, right, and all of a sudden he starts in on his <em>world famous<em> barbecue**—**"

"Oh, yeah. I'm going to that. I didn't know it was _world famous_."

"You are?"

"Why not? He made it sound fun. And also maybe mandatory. I wasn't sure."

"Yeah, here's how these things usually go. Oliver burns the chicken**—**"

"He said he makes really good chicken."

"Burnt. It's all burnt, like something Homicide'd have to ID. And there's a lot of ruckus, a lot of drinking**—**"

"Ruckus? Really? Are you a cop, or are you some elderly next door neighbor filing a noise complaint? Besides, you're coming tonight, right?"

"You inviting anyone? You know, Nash, or... Nash."

"Do we? I mean**,**are we supposed to?"

"I don't know. You want to?"

"I'm good. Yep. Single... good... just, you know, focusing on work right now. Looks like it's just me and some dip."

"Gotta love the dip." 

* * *

><p>"Hey, hang on. Waaaait a sec. You're going to a <em>barbecue<em>? At _Oliver's_?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Uh, I don't know, he's our training officer?"

"Was. You know, back before we became awesome. Or. Well. We've always _been_ awesome, but there was a time we were slightly less so and **—** yeah, I'm rambling, I know, I _know_. It's a little weird. I know that! But, he asked, he really looked like he wanted me to say yes, so. I said yes. Should I have said no?"

"Hey, don't look at me. My invitation must've got lost in the mail."

"The weird thing about it? I think it might be a **— **nope. Never mind. I can't believe I just thought that."

"What? Spill. You can't say something like that and then go all I'd-like-to-speak-to-a-lawyer on me. Spill."

"Okay, so **— **Oliver invites me, right?"

"Yeah, before parade."

"Yeah, but he kinda drops it in there all casually that _Sam's_ going too."

"Oh. Ohhhhh."

"_Sam_, Traci."

"Wow."

"Turns out? No one else! Just me, just Sam; just us and Oliver and his wife who, by the way, never even frickin' met!"

"Date."

"What?"

"Totally a date! They're double-datin' you up."

"What? No. Seriously?"

"You're going on a date with _Swarek_. Guess that puts him off the ice, huh?"

"You don't really think**—**? I mean, that's insane. That's crazy. You don't _hook _one of your rookies up with your fellow training officer. This isn't some kinda in-house dating service, geez."

"Not our training officers any more, remember? Besides, it's not so bad. We _are _talking Sam Swarek, here, he of the original swoon."

"He's my partner. We work together, and you know what? Hey, valid point right here: I swore off cops. All of 'em."

"So, you're just never gonna date again **—** you're gonna turn into one of those callous female cops that, hey, YOU KNOW are ten kinds of scary. You know they are."

"I'm not gonna date _cops_. One type. One very singular type, off the list."

"Okay, then."

"You don't think I can do it? Please. I meet men all the time."

"Yeah, while you're _arresting_ them."

"Sometimes not! Sometimes it's an undercover thing, and guys just happen to be in the... general... vicinity."

"Of the illegal drug busts. Or the prostitution stings. Oh yeah, keep talking. We're zeroing in on some real fine catches here."

"Maybe I don't even want to date. Maybe I want to spend a realistic amount of time wallowing. Hello, woman scorned. I think I have a right to wallow."

"Andy..."

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you. I'm not wallowing over Luke, okay? I'm not! I was, for a while, but then I woke up one day and I realized: life's short. Life is short and I'm not gonna spend another second of mine wasted on**—**"

"That loser? Hey, just saying. The guy did give up a really good thing, and for what?"

"He did, didn't he? I _am_ a really good thing."

"Hell yes, you are. A thing that's going to wear something a little sexy, a little slutty, and _work it_at Oliver's barbecue tonight."

"Oh my god, it's not a date."

"Uh-_huh_. How're you getting there again?"

"...So, uh, Sam might be picking me up."

"Mmm-hmmm. _Not a date_. Please." 

* * *

><p>So, maybe it's kind of a date.<p>

"Hey," Andy says, climbing into Sam's truck. She's not nervous, because that would be stupid; of the many things Sam makes her, nervous is not one of them, hasn't been since she realized her bark was bigger than his bite. Except he's kinda all shadowed in the cab of his truck, has her feeling like maybe there's something to be nervous about here. Or, like, moderately freaked out about, at the very least.

"Hey." He taps the steering wheel. Stares. "You ready?"

That would be the climbing-into-the-truck part of her evening. She bites back the sarcasm, though, and says, "All set." The door shuts really solidly behind her, taking with it the constant rattle of traffic that exists outside of Traci's apartment complex. Some low tune, something like old school soft rock, the kind her dad would get nostalgic with, is spilling out of the radio speakers. Quiet, like he turned it down when he pulled up.

After a while, Sam says, "So," filling up the lull that falls between them. They drift into a residential-looking neighborhood. "You wanna survive tonight: three things. One, no matter how much he begs you, and he _will_ beg, do not agree to any kind of cook-off with Ollie."

It's Toronto and it's summer, which means she's already rethinking her jeans. Which, by the way, are not the slutty kind, no matter how diligently Traci fought for them.

"Okay?"

"I'm serious. Guy goes batty for those reality cooking shows, thinks he's got a shot **— **at what, I don't know. Just, don't encourage him."

"Should I _dis_courage him?"

"Absolutely. Be brutal. Two, careful where you step; they've got a backyard like it's hot with land mines. Dog," he says by way of explanation.

"Here's where some of that E.O.D. training would've come in handy, heh."

"Three," he goes on, no pause at all to appreciate her banter, which is so typical. "I make a mean hamburger. You want a hamburger done right, you come to me."

"Got it. Soooo." Even though there's a _little too late_ vibe going on, she blurts out anyway, "Sam, this isn't gonna be _weird_, right?"

"Weird?" he repeats, like: what is that word? how old is she, twelve?

"I feel like there's definite possibility for weirdness and I just **— **I want to avoid that. Really, really badly."

"Why would it be _weird_?" That's a real question. He's really asking **—** as if there aren't a dozen reasons why this would be weird, starting and ending with, uh, hello, their entire professional history? Or, hey, their entire personal history?

"Uh, I don't know?" she tells him, snark turned to high. "It's me and a couple of my training officers, palling around off-duty **—** _why_ would that ever be weird?"

He shoots her a look. Not a hard one to decipher, either, it's one that says: _Right, I forgot how stupid you occasionally are._Roughly translated, but close enough.

"Yeah, well, you didn't have to come. You could've said no."

"I'm not saying**—**"

"What?"

"I'm not saying I don't want to go, I'm saying**—**" _Is this a date? _Yeah, no, definitely not saying that. "This isn't exactly the Penny," she defends.

He bites off a smile. "Look at that. Observant as ever."

"Ha-ha," she throws back. "I guess I just want to know what I'm walking into."

"Uh, a barbecue." That's the Sam equivalent of the word DUH, which pretty much means it's a vocal substitute for a really patronizing pat on the head. "Generally there's beer... company... a little grilling**—**"

"Grilling! Exactly." That hits close to something else she'd been worrying about. "This isn't, you know, some kinda stealthy, premeditated, training officer/trainee ploy to reprimand me, is it?"

"Yes, McNally, that's exactly what this is. I brought you out here to reprimand you. Yeah, and after that, we're gonna throw you under the bus."

"Fine. So. It's a barbecue. Just a barbecue." As long as that's settled.

"You brought the dip?" he asks.

"I brought the dip."

Sam smiles and turns the radio back up. 

* * *

><p>"Jesus, look at him. That hat."<p>

Andy leans across the center console to see out the window. There Oliver is, standing in front of a picket fence that leads, presumably, to a backyard, decked out in this ridiculous chef's hat. One of those really tall kinds, too, that looks idiotic even on the best-looking of people, and Oliver, well, he's more of an inner-beauty kind of guy, so. He's also got some sort of grilling utensil hoisted in the air, waving it around like a greeting.

"Personally," Andy murmurs through the tight smile she's giving back, all facade, "I'm more offended by the apron. _Bone The Cook_?" she reads. It's like something Dov would wear.

Sam grins, shoots her a pleasant look that says, pretty much, _welcome to the eighth circle of Hell_, and slips out of the car. She follows.

"Heya, buddy," Sam aims at Oliver, bro-nod included. Oliver throws his arms open real wide, gestures the two of them his way.

"Hey! You made it. Get your asses back here."

They get intercepted halfway there, though, by some woman who comes sweeping out of Oliver's house at an alarmingly not-normal speed. "You're here!" calls out that woman, who is obviously Zoe and even more obviously way out of Oliver's league. She's got the look of some small town beauty queen, like, you know, maybe she won a few pageants in her time, probably broke a lot of hearts. She swoops up on Sam, wraps her arms around him real tight, which makes Andy take a few mental lunges backwards because, _wow_, Sam so does not seem like the hugging type, and there is a _whoooole _lot of hugging going on right now.

Yeah, except he gives back as good as he's getting, smiling one of his big ol' crinkled smiles into her neck. "Zoe," he says, breaking away to hold her at arm's length. "Look at you. Still way too good to be with that schmo," he teases, leaning in like they're being all secretive here. So, weirdly, basically. It's super weird.

"Hey," Oliver calls. "I heard that. Balding, buddy, not deaf. Ears still work just fine."

"And you," says Zoe, moving off of Sam to practically pounce on Andy, and **—** are they meeting the parents? This feels so much like Meeting The Parents **—** "must be Sam's friend."

"Partner," Sam says, after the world's most awkward beat, which: thank you, she's got this.

"Guilty. They force me to ride shotgun with this guy, can you believe it?"

"Yeah, and you should hear the yapper on this one," Sam jabs right back, says it like he's gotten some serious headaches over it in the past, but his eyes are all soft, soaking up the sting.

They do the whole meet-and-greet thing in full, still stalled near Sam's truck. It's only after five minutes and a pause in conversation that Oliver manages to wrangle them into the backyard.

"World famous barbecue time!" he calls as he goes. He points that same grilling utensil at the house beside his, this two story building that sits practically right on top of theirs. "Neighbors, be jealous!"

"So," Sam murmurs while they walk, bumping elbows with her **—** and almost distracting with his cocky-cop swagger and no uniform to fill it with. "Still think it's _weird_?"

Which is when Oliver sends a ball of fire up into the sky. 

* * *

><p>"I got it, I got it," Oliver assures them once the grill is under control once more, the flames subsided. "You accidentally hurl one fireball into the sky and no one trusts you to man your own grill any more. Geez."<p>

Everyone else is sitting, seated at one of those outdoor dining sets on what might one day be a deck but is currently only a half-finished section of hardwood. Sam's got his plastic chair tipped way back, the two front legs high off the ground. With one hand he's nursing a beer, has that resting cozy in his lap between the occasional long sip, and the other has somehow found its way atop the back part of Andy's chair. This she knows because every once in a while Sam will make some point mid-conversation by poking at her shoulder.

"Hey, Oliver," he heckles over the rim of his beer, "you have any eyebrows left? Look this way, buddy."

Oliver wields his tongs at Sam. "For that," he says, all dark and ominous, "you're getting the dark meat. Yeah, that's happening."

Sam flicks his eyebrows, throws back a smile that says: yeah, I'm a smart ass.

"So, Andy," Zoe says, sitting across from them, and, bless her, this lady is crazy sweet. She keeps piling Andy's paper plate up with potato salad and chips, which makes her feel kind of, I don't know, _mothered_. In a good way. "How'd you get mixed up with these two?" The implied being: lady, you're a delight, and these dudes? These guys are straight up pains.

Sam looks over, stares like he absolutely can't _wait_ for her answer. Like he knows better, knows she's a handful herself, finds it frickin' _comical_, and now he gets to watch her squirm her way out of this.

She narrows her eyes at him, holds her own. "I think the thought process goes something like, _how fast can we break 'em_?"

Sam snorts. He drops his chair back down, puts his beer on the table in front of him, and if his arm is still draped behind her, it's **—** well, it's a guy thing. "McNally, you had it _easy_," he says.

"Oh, please," she scoffs. She catches Zoe's eyes. "This guy?" she tells her, thumb hitched in Sam's direction, "was a total hard ass. _Is_a total hard ass."

"Was not," Sam defends, swiping a few chips out of the chip bowl. He settles back into his chair, more cozy this time.

"Sammy," Oliver announces, like he is imparting them with some great wisdom here, "you are a total hard ass. It's true." He pokes at something inside the grill, sending up another plume of smoke, but less disastrous this time.

"Yeah," Andy's goading, "he pretty much had me second guessing my career that first week. _Month_, actually."

Sam frowns. "I did?"

"Yeah, but, you know, it all worked out. I eventually realized **—** hey, if I could deal with a punk like you on the job, a guy I _work _with, I could deal with anything."

Oliver barks out a laugh. "She's got you, man. Total punk," he says, shaking his head, flipping chicken.

Sam's smiling, though, smiling and staring right at her and **— **this definitely might be heading towards a date. 

* * *

><p>He catches her outside the Shaw's bathroom. She's coming out, air drying her washed hands, seriously thinking about just wiping them on her jeans, when he shows up out of nowhere.<p>

"Hey," she breathes, calming her jumping nerves. Part of it due to his sudden appearance, but part, too, because of this new-ish feeling inside her like whatever compartment she's had this _thing _with Sam stashed away in for so long is finally coming apart at the seams, not quite holding up so resiliently any more.

He lifts his eyebrows. "Snooping?"

Okay, and maybe those seams are re-tightening. Seriously, he's such a _pain_.

She rolls her eyes at him. "No. You?"

Like he has to think about it, he props his shoulder against the wall, leans with his hip jutted way out. If she notices, it's only because that's what eyes do, okay **— **they notice things. Hence their whole purpose. "Nah," he says. "Copper's paycheck. Not hardly worth it."

Andy nods, looks away. When she looks back, he's still staring, so she throws her arms over her chest, nods again towards a closed door down the hall with a KEEP OUT sign tacked on. She noticed it when she first came by. "Oliver's keeping secrets?"

Sam glances back over his shoulder. "Oh. Right," he says. "That's Izzie's room."

"Izzie?"

"Daughter," he answers, which... did she know that? She should've known that. I mean, she's having _barbecue _at the guy's house, she should know whether or not he has a kid.

"Right," she tells him. A little wound up, or whatever, she slides her hands down the front of her jeans. "Obviously."

Sam stares, then drops his weight her way. His arm swipes the wall where he's leaning, and he reaches out, fingers touching her elbow.

"Hey," he says, really quiet somehow. "McNally. I wanted to**—**" He pushes off the wall, tall and straight again, fingers still at her elbow. The last thing he says is, "Talk," and he looks just as surprised by that.

Flares go up. Here's the thing: people don't just say that word and mean it casually. No one in the history of the world has ever said that word and meant it _casually_, okay.

"Okay, so. Talk," she tells him, but fast. Maybe she's just being really dumb here. Maybe he's asking about work or something and she's reading way too much into things because of the bursting seams and because Traci's got her all hyper vigilant.

He smiles. It makes the corners of his eyes go tight. Soooo, this might be something that unthreads those seams completely. But then Oliver's hand clamps down on Sam's shoulder, startling Andy way more than anyone else. "Sammy, there you are. Duty calls, brother."

Like the interruption flicked off the energy that was powering up between them, Sam turns his whole body one-eighty degrees, drops back against the wall. "What?"

Oliver's still wearing that horrible apron. "Those patties, they're calling your name, brother. I told Zoe I'd handle it, but she threatened to divorce me if I didn't come get **—** you **—** and **—** you're talking to**—**" Oliver's eyes go really wide. "Ohhh. Uh, hey, I'm not interrupting **—** here **—** _anything_. Am I? 'Cause I can go. Hey, what's a marriage, anyway?"

"Nope," Andy gets out first, which makes both men look at her since it's maybe borderline zealous and overeager, and Sam? Well, she's not looking at Sam, so if he's looking bothered that she's so easily blowing him off, that she doesn't see. It's just **— **an awkward conversation outside of Oliver's bathroom is about as high up Andy's wish list as cheating ex-fiances or, hey, taking a bullet to the vest. A strong no thank you.

Sam smiles real wide. "After you," he says, stepping aside. 

* * *

><p>Over the next forty minutes, these things happen:<p>

- Oliver challenges Andy to a cook-off. He actually does. Sam's advice rattling around her head, plus her own sharpened survival instincts, has her begging off, so Oliver spends six minutes after that trying to harass Sam into it. There's a second where Andy thinks almost **—** almost **—**he's going to fold, because he's a man and men must defend their egos especially when publicly and viciously called out, but he casts a look at Andy like they've got some inside joke about this, and Oliver lets it go.

- Hockey talk. Lots and lots of hockey talk.

- Eating. You know, it being a barbecue and everything.

- Cases get discussed. Inevitable. Cops are cops, and all that. 

* * *

><p>"Excuse us," Zoe says once the police talk dies down, totally not subtle, dragging Andy into the kitchen and away from the guys. It's all very... blatant.<p>

Andy heads over to the sink, thinks maybe she should wash a few dishes. You know, what guests do, right? She has a dim memory of people visiting her house, way back when **—** friends of her dad, men who worked with him when she was growing up. Their tag-along wives, which meant inevitable casserole dishes and awkward chats in the kitchen while everyone else played poker and how Andy, even then, even when she was all knobby elbows and too-tall legs, preferred the trash talk, the cigar smoke, the camaraderie between the men loads more than the Susie Homemaker routine. But Zoe slides up close, leans in real far. "Nice night," she says, except her eyes are hinting at something other than the general atmosphere.

It has been a nice night, though; the weather's cooled, the sun's nearly touching down, leaving mostly pinks and gray in the sky. She needed this, Andy realizes. Exactly this. Just, a break.

"Yeah," she smiles, toying with a dishrag. "Nice. Definitely nice."

"Less nice, of course, was the chicken."

"Really? It wasn't**—**"

"Andy, honey, I'm telling you seriously: don't bother. It helps Ollie to hear that his culinary skills aren't nearly quite as legendary as he insists they are."

"Yeah, well, training officer or not, he's still my superior, so. I'll probably be sucking up about this for, oh, the next few years, _at least_. Maybe slip it in when he's dishing out desk duty."

"So long as it keeps his dreams shattered, repressed, and indefinitely on-hold, go for it." Then, "Nice, too, wasn't it **—** seeing Sam so relaxed? I'm telling you, that guy, mellow? Never happens, not like tonight. You'd know. It's that cop's blood **—** like he's always got one foot out the door, can't settle anywhere. It's good to see him so... content," Zoe settles on, with a decisive little nod, like: yep, that's what's been happening all night. Sam's been _content_.

Mostly what Andy thinks about that is that Zoe's obviously never worked with Sam, because content as he may occasionally be, it's usually just a segue emotion into other things way more complicated.

Zoe goes, "He's a good guy," in what might be the exact tonal equivalent of _wink-wink-nudge-nudge_, and Andy gets the feeling, not for the first time, that way too many people are interested in her romantic life. "Not that you'd know it, 'cause it's not like he ever acts like anything but Mr. Lone Wolf."

"Tell me about it. _The cheese stands alone_," she mocks, laughs a little, too, remembering Sam nailing that description on her once upon a time ago.

"It's been a while," Zoe agrees, the _since_ hanging there in the air between them like some imaginary ellipsis. So, of course Andy runs over the possibilities of what that could mean. Dating, maybe. Sam and dating. Her brain blinks that a few times, but it doesn't hook. Honestly, seriously, _Dov and Gail_ makes more sense in her head, seems way more plausible, and that's _crazy_.

Not that she cares or is interested, in the slightest, because she's obviously not, but: "Does he **—** date? A lot?" I mean, it's not like she's ever going to get the opportunity to pry like this again.

Zoe practically titters. Deprived of gossip, maybe, or happy to pimp out Sam. Who knows. "Not lately. Not in, hm, a year? Two? _Some_ kinda dry spell, huh?"

Andy's mind conjures up this fast, instantaneous replay of that night of the blackout. Legs and naked torsos and banging hips **— **not so dry, actually. Nope. All very un-dry.

Sam slips into the room, then, gives Zoe this look like he knows exactly what she's up to and probably she should go find herself something else to do.

"Oh, wow, is that Oliver I hear?" she is quick to catch on, smoothing her hands across her shirt. She backs away. "I should make sure he hasn't gone and burned down the backyard. Neighbors hate it when that happens."

"Good idea," Sam tells her, watching as she goes. She gives him a stern look, one that's not hard to miss, which might be the whole point, and disappears outside. Afterward, Sam stares at Andy, stares like he figures the next move is on her, but winds up coming close after a few beats anyway.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey."

"Everything okay in here?"

Emotions? So easily suppressed. Andy squashes down all the confusing ones currently swirling in her head.

"All good," she confirms. "Yep. Just some lady-talk. Ladies talking their talk."

He comes up all the way beside her, settles with his back to the counter, arms folded. "If it's anything like Oliver-talk, I'm thinking that's our cue to cut outta here. You ready?"

Good food, good company, but yes. Andy is so ready. 

* * *

><p>Leaving is the plan. And they do that. They're waved out the front door, Oliver points this no-nonsense finger at Andy that lets her know nothing between them has professionally changed even though she's now seen the inside of his house.<p>

Except: Andy kisses Sam outside the pickup truck. It's just **—** she goes around to her side, and he follows, and he tugs open the door first, all easy and casual like it's totally not a date-thing to do, and **—** screw it, she's young, you know? And Sam's obviously interested, because it's not like he stops her or gives her the _what the hell are you doing, McNally?_ face. He doesn't even hesitate, he picks things up right there with her, like this is the end of some really long thread they've both been holding onto since that night of the blackout **—** and they're _really_ kissing, tongue and everything, and it's like **—** seriously, _why_ haven't they been doing this all along again?

Sam stands right up against her, leans with both hands pressed palm-flat against the hood of his truck. It's that kind of kissing. Hot, but slow, like they're not in someone else's front yard, like they've got all the time in the world.

Andy does break away, though, a little, feeling this side of bold **— **also, slightly reckless. "Hey, so. Your place?"

He's really close. She maybe hasn't ever been this close to him before. Her spine's tingling, nerve endings shooting out little shocks straight down to her toes. His smile says he's picking up on some of those currents; it also says he might be feeling them too.

"My place," he agrees, and, yeah. Okay, _okay_ **—** this was definitely a date.


End file.
